


grace under pressure

by Miracule



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Gen, just getting the hang of one another, pre-pacific rim, pre-slash if you want it, warning: grown men behaving childishly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 20:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miracule/pseuds/Miracule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Hermann says something not-so-nice and suffers the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	grace under pressure

“You’re a disgrace to your field,” you said, practically spitting the words into his face.  “An embarrassment.”    The man with six doctorates— _a fucking disgrace!_

The smile vanished from his lips and his shoulders curved inward.  He looked positively floored by the comment, but somehow you didn’t care in the slightest.  He stared at you wordlessly and you stared him right down, gripping your cane so hard you could feel the sweat under your palms. 

“Yeah, well, fuck you, dude,” was the only reply he managed.   

You’ve gone too far, you thought, and it hit you with a dull thud. 

It was the stress of it all—the long days and endless nights spent pouring over calculations that required too much concentration and demanded more hours of sleep than you had available.   It was all that time spent holed up in a fish tank, swimming against the glass, free to see the outside but hardly able to leave.   _There isn’t the space in this lab for the two of us,_ you wanted to say.  _Surely you must understand that._  

But you said nothing and he said nothing, and you spent the rest of the evening slipping in and out of a haze, painfully aware of every noise that sounded from Newton’s half of the room.   When you finally rose, knees cracking, to pour yourself a cup of lukewarm coffee, you neglected to offer him one and the decision haunted you back to your desk. 

When he stood and smoothed down his shirt, you watched him through the corner of your eye.  You had no idea what to call the simmering, nauseas feeling in your stomach.   Guilt?   Perhaps.  Perhaps it was the coffee wrecking havoc on your lower intestines.  

You kept your gaze on his hunched figure as he rifled through the closet and emerged with the bucket he used to clean the floor.  He filled it in the sink, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and flexed his fingers around the rim.  

When he started coming at you with it, you sat up, all pretense banished, and asked him where the hell he was going with that.  He ignored you entirely and as he passed your desk, water sloshed over the edge, over his white knuckles, onto the floor. 

He heaved the entire bucket at your blackboard—at least a few gallons of water, right at the center.   Calibrations that took you a few days to complete were washed away and replaced by gray trails that might well have been the remnants of a child’s chalk drawing.  You stared at your work, at the large dark mess in the middle—a black hole that would take you at least a day’s hard concentration to fill. 

Your mouth is dry as you look from the bucket on the floor to your colleague.  He stares at you with an expression that is far cooler than you would have expected, save for the very hard line that defines his lips.   You take a deliberate step forward and he takes one back, curling his hands into fists.  

You should be angry, livid.  He expects you to be, and yet you can’t bring yourself to say a word to reprimand him.  You breathe shallowly, gesture to the board, bite your lip.  You want to shake him.  

There’s sweat gathering at the small of your back and you picture it: cursing him, giving him a good blow to the bollocks with your cane, threatening him with a direct complaint to the director herself. 

But the words that finally spill out of you are, “Sorry.  I’m _sorry_ ,” and you mean it.    

The muscles in Newton’s jaw relax and his lips part.   It’s as if something just clicks inside of him, and he looks at the water on the floor and swears breathlessly.

“Oh, _shit_.”

You walk toward the flood, careful not to let your feet slip, and pick the bucket up with the end of your cane.  A thin line of water drips out.  You shuffle back toward him and he takes it from you, refusing to meet your gaze, you refusing to meet his. 

“Hermann…” 

You shake your head.   You can hear yourself breathing, hard and controlled.  You’re close enough to see his throat move when he swallows, looking up at the massive stain he’s created.  

“It’s not so bad,” you mutter as you move past him, “I could probably see the outline of most of it, once it dries.” 

“I should’ve hosed it down, then,” he says, and there you are—back to normal.         

**Author's Note:**

> ugh, i love these two. especially herm and his sibling-esque hissy fits.


End file.
